Something is passed
down to us.
A deep and secret
longing to find
meaning in existence
and our place in it.

When she wrote her name

it was as if the world sang.

Of course, that was my adolescent
boyman hormones
telling me that
everything she did was music.

I met her again
today
in a store.

Her hair has gone mostly
gray and her hands
show the years but her eyes
still smile when she speaks

and the corners of
her mouth turn up a little
when she remembers
that I loved her.

Leaping free from the side
of an old Chevrolet
pick up truck
I planted my feet in
the dark soil.

She cast a glance
and jumped
unafraid and unrestrained
her dimples deepening
as she laughed.

The old man
our grandfather
climbed the metal stairs
and I knew that
this day would remain.

We ran behind him
watching his hands as they
drew the oil soaked
metal measuring tape
from the tank.

With a stub of a pencil he
copied the numbers into
a small paper pad
and placed it back into
the pocket of his Big Smiths.

Descending again
we ran ahead and leapt
feet first
from the fifth tread
crossing moist air

to land light as children
run laughing and fly
into the back of that old truck
as the old man
             closed the door.

A moment comes when you open
a drawer and there is a photograph.
Stunned is not, perhaps, the word,
but it stops your hand and draws
your gaze

Then you are surprised to find
that tears have come, unbidden.

Your fingers touch that face
and your palm remembers.
Your heart remembers
a voice that spoke words-

Rubbish.
I know.
I love you.

The bark of a tree
on the bare of my palm
feels precisely opposite
the smooth of your skin.

At the far end
of the pasture
ran the horses

naked and lithe
as though they might
lift into flight.

"Damn!" she said
"Look at em go!"

She was younger then
bright eyes wide
with the thought of it.

We walk on stones
sometimes
broad and flat that lie
so still

and when
we walk on sand or leaves
the memory of stone
remains.

 

Air moves cool across
the void created
when the trees fell.

A moment was all but in
that moment she appeared
bright
shimmering in the eye
of the universe.

How quickly the dream
is fading.
 

The walls had
originally been white
but years had turned
them yellow or gray
streaked
with bright sienna
in areas exposed
to the rain.

Behind the panes of black
wooden framed windows
a bed on the right
table on the left
sat one small clay
pot of flowers.

We sing of stones

bright colored
sparkling
beneath autumn sun
and our voices
rise in the telling.